Irrational
by TheJesusFreak777
Summary: Draco Malfoy isn't sure what he wanted, but he knows for certain that it wasn't to attend Blaise Zabini's funeral handcuffed and wandless.


**A/N: Yes, another one-shot. Please R&R. :)**

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This is not what I wanted.

I'm not sure what, exactly, I wanted, but I do know know this is not it.

I never wanted to have to go to Blaise Zabini's funeral wandless and shackled to two Aurors.

Like I said, I'm not sure what it is I'd wanted. But I know that this definitely is not what I'd had in mind.

No one knows which side Blaise was on during the battle, or if his death was entirely accidental, or if he was ours or theirs. I'm not sure which side I was on, either. I'm not certain which is "ours" and which is "theirs." Are Colin Creevey, Fred Weasley, and Remus Lupin ours? Are Aunt Bellatrix and Yaxley theirs? Or vice versa?

It all hurt my head very much to think about, as did a lot of things now. I miss it when things were easier. When my biggest disagreement was Potter refusing to shake my hand.

But then...that hadn't been easy, either, had it? Hadn't it been for Mum and Dad that I'd done that anyway? Hadn't all this been for Mum and Dad and our Lord?

So that's which side I was on. I was on the losing side. I was on the defeated side. Because somewhere, embedded deep in my mind, came the insatiable fear and respect for the Dark Lord, and calling him anything else made me cringe.

I did not want this.

I did not want to have to go to Blaise Zabini's funeral shackled to Aurors like I am some kind of dangerous fugitive. And in some rational part of my brain, I realize that I'm just that-a criminal on the way to Azkaban, on death row.

But I gave up rationality when I first gave in to Dad's wishes, when I first allowed myself to be swallowed up by the Dark Arts, when I first had the Dark Mark branded into my skin, that first attempt to murder Dumbledore.

Maybe even before then. Maybe I'd been born irrational, or born into irrationality, at least.

No, this is not what I want.

The Slytherins who hadn't taken sides are here at the funeral, and some are crying. Some are waiting for Snape to be buried. But only around a quarter of the House of Salazar Slytherin are here free, because the rest of us had been so terribly stupid and so idiotically blinded by bloodlust or bound by wishes of others. Many of us had already been taken away by the Aurors to the Ministry or Azkaban, and it had been a mere four days.

It had been near impossible for anyone to recognize Blaise Zabini's body, or so I hear. His casket is closed. Neville Longbottom had found him under a pile of rubble, and when Oliver Wood had carried the bloodied, bruised, and burnt body to Professor McGonagall, we are told he asked, "One of ours?"

And she had stared down, her eyes blank. "I don't know who this is," she'd said, and it had turned out that she had taught him for seven years, and he was one of the most gifted students in her Transfiguration classes. But below the blindness, at least I would like to think, there _had_ to have been sadness, pity, fear, regret, _something_. She'd had to at least feel _something_ when she looked down at the body she could not recognize.

Astoria told me that they had recognized Daphne, her sister, because of her teeth, she had been so badly injured. They recognized Blaise from his eyes, which had been wide open and dead and lifeless.

I don't know which side Blaise Zabini was on, but how could I, when I couldn't figure out where my own allegiance lie? If I could have it preserved in my memory, I'd like to think he had died alongside heroes like Neville Longbottom and Weasley and Harry Potter and even the Mud-er, Muggleborn, Granger.

But in my heart of hearts, I know it's probably not so. It is my fault he is dead, most likely, just as it is my fault Vincent Crabbe was crated off to his mother in a wooden box. Because it hadn't been enough for me to think I had been right, I had to be surely confident that I was right, and my father as well, and I had to make sure Blaise Zabini and Vincent Crabbe and Gregory Goyle thought so too.

I killed him. I killed Crabbe and Blaise and Daphne Greengrass and every other Slytherin who'd died, because I sucked them into this world that revolved around me and Potter and Dad and the Dark Lord.

I don't say so, because saying so would mean that Blaise had been just as foul as me, and that's not how I'd like to tarnish his memory.

The Auror on my left clears her throat. "You may visit with Mr. Zabini, if you wish."

"Thank you," I respond stiffly. I step forward, the chains weighing down in my ankles. They move with me. I get to the casket and touch the wood. I feel pressure behind my eyes and sure enough tears begin to trace hot, red lines down my face.

"Mr. Malfoy, your time is over. I'm sorry, but you will not be able to attend Miss Greengrass's funeral, as her parents are holding it privately on their estate. If Mr. Zabini is your last fellow you'd like to see, it's time-"

"Shut up!" I snarl. No one says a word, and I plow on. "Let me grieve in peace!" My voice dies and I place a shaky hand on the wooden box holding the remains of my friend. I'm fully aware of everyone watching me. Every professor at Hogwarts had come for the burial. "Please," I whisper to my guards. "Please. He was my friend. He was my friend and he's dead!"

This is not what I want. I do not want Blaise Zabini to be dead. He is needed above.

The Aurors exchange quick looks. "I suppose so," one says grudgingly, unlocking the cuffs at my ankles and stepping back. "Not much longer, Mr. Malfoy, you are needed at the Ministry."

I stare at them and then back at the casket. The full strain of the past few days is almost too much. I look back up the hill to the ruins of Hagrid's hut, to the broken shell of Hogwarts. I barely stifle a sob.

None of this can really be happening. I'll wake up tomorrow, and I'll still be a first year, and I'll tell Potter I'm sorry, and I'll never listen to a damn word anyone tells me about the Dark Arts.

I try to control my breathing, but I can't. I hyperventilate, feeling the emotions inside me boil. I stuff my sleeve in my mouth, trying to stop myself from crying out. I scream into the cloth, bite down hard until the fabric tears in my mouth and I taste blood and tears run down my face. I sob, I sob hard, my nose and eyes streaming and a pressure on my chest like a heart attack and a lump in my throat and I can't breathe.

I don't care which side Blaise Zabini was on. I don't care which I was on, either, because Blaise Zabini did not have to die. He shouldn't have died, and that's that.

"Mr. Malfoy, The Court of the Wizengamot is requesting your presence."

"Leave me alone!" I snarl. My voice chokes. "Leave-us-alone. Please." I turn back to the coffin, not even waiting to see what happens next. "I'm so sorry, Blaise," I choke out. "I never meant for this to happen."

The shackles clasp around my ankles, and I shake my head, scattering my tears. Everyone's eyes follow me.

"No!" I cry. "Blaise, I'm so sorry, Blaise, you've got to, you've got to be alive, you've got to forgive me, Blaise, please, I'm sorry, so sorry..."

The Aurors pick me up by my arms to take me out of the funeral.

"I'm sorry!" I cry, my voice strangled and belonging to anyone but me. I see the horrified expressions of Professors Flitwick and McGonagall, the faces shadowed with grief and sadness, like Pansy and Crabbe and the very few Gryffindors who'd had the courtesy to come. "Please," I sob.

I'm not thinking right, something deep in me tells me, but I don't care, because it's my fault he's dead, it's all my fault he's dead.

I gave up logic and sanity when I went to Blaise Zabini's funeral. And probably long before then, as well.


End file.
